


Lunary Love

by angelichl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Boys In Love, Christmas Fluff, Crying, Crying Harry Styles, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Poetry, Sad Harry, Sappy Ending, Shower Sex, Songwriter Louis, Songwriting, Strangers to Lovers, Supportive Boyfriend Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 15:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12867933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelichl/pseuds/angelichl
Summary: Louis overhears his neighbor crying in the shower, and decides to check up on him to make sure he's okay.





	Lunary Love

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: "Listen, we have very thin walls and I heard you crying in the shower, are you okay?"
> 
> The title is from the poem "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" by John Donne.
> 
> Enjoy this holiday cheesiness and self-indulgent poetry reading.
> 
> Much love .xx

_But never have I been a blue calm sea  
I have always been a storm._

—Fleetwood Mac

 

During the three years Louis has lived in this cramped flat on forty-fifth street, he’s heard quite a few interesting sounds due to the paper-thin walls between each apartment. Marital arguments, enthusiastic sex, children crying, objects breaking, TV’s blaring, you name it. He’s heard it all.

 

So it doesn’t come as a surprise, when someone new moves into the vacant flat to Louis’ left, that Louis can hear his new neighbor too. Louis is quiet most of the day, trying to finish some of the songs he’s currently writing, so sometimes he hears his new neighbor trip over the furniture, or stub his toe on the wall and curse. One time he hears him break a ceramic mug. He also hears him sing along to Shania Twain’s entire discography quite often, so much it’s nearly obnoxious, except for the fact that Louis finds it endearing.

 

And, coincidentally, Louis hears him in the shower one day, crying softly.

 

It happens during a thunderstorm late in the evening on a Saturday night, when Louis has yet again failed to meet up with his friends for a night out despite their consistent pleading. Lately he’s been enjoying quiet alone-time more and more, so he decides to stay in. At nine o’clock he retreats to his bedroom, journal in hand, and proceeds to cuddle up in bed, leaning against the wall to jot down some song lyrics. This is when he hears it.

 

Just quiet sniffling at first, like he has allergies, rising above the sound of the water hitting the tiles of the shower. There’s a loud boom of thunder and the sniffling turns into full out crying, all gaspy and sad-like. It pulls on Louis’ heartstrings.

 

He’s never had a real conversation with his new neighbor, who moved in a few weeks ago, but they’ve introduced themselves and thus Louis knows his name is Harry. He’s pretty cute, Louis must admit. When they see each other in the halls they always smile and wave. One time Louis witnessed Harry carrying brown paper bags up the stairs for the elderly lady who lives on the other side of his flat, and that made Louis smile too. He seems like a genuine, down-to-earth guy. Still, they’ve never really had a reason to converse, so Louis is stuck appreciating Harry from a distance. It’s alright though. Sometimes Harry makes him laugh when Louis hears him stub his toe on the couch again, or when he talks to his cat in a baby voice.

 

But right now, Harry is crying to himself, alone, in the shower, on a Saturday night. It’s storming outside, matching Harry’s mood.

 

And like. There’s this pull inside Louis. This ache. Like some part of him is hurting because his cute neighbor is hurting. Louis frowns to himself, closing his journal and setting it down on the duvet. In a split second, his decision is made.

 

Harry is a lovely person, from what Louis can see. He deserves some kindness in his life, doesn’t he? Louis also feels like he could use some good karma from checking up on his neighbor to see if he’s okay. So that’s exactly what he does.

 

He steps out of his flat, still dressed in joggers and a hoodie with socks but no shoes. He was planning on not seeing a single soul tonight, but he supposes he can make an exception for his neighbor who is apparently upset.

 

So Louis raps his knuckles on the door right beside his own, waiting patiently and wondering if Harry will even open it. The sound of the shower has long since ended, but honestly, the chances of him coming to the door are slim to none. Alternatively, Louis wonders what he would say if Harry did actually decide to open the door. He isn’t sure what words are necessary in this situation.

 

He doesn’t have much time to think, though, because the sound of footsteps becomes nearer. And then the door is swinging open to reveal a puffy-eyed, red-nosed Harry. He’s wearing faded pink pajama shorts and an oversized jumper, his long legs on display, feet bare. His hair is wet and dripping, slicked back by the way he runs his fingers through it like he’s nervous.

 

“Hey neighbor,” Louis greets quickly, not giving Harry a chance to say anything because what would he even say? He allows his face to fall into a tentative smile. “Listen, we have very thin walls, you know? And I, um, overheard you crying in the shower, and I was wondering if you were okay?”

 

Harry sniffles quietly, pawing at his eye with his hand to wipe away the new, shiny tears which spill out unexpectedly. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he says softly, voice wavering. It’s obviously a lie, and they both know it.

 

“Want some company anyway?” Louis asks, smiling delicately.

 

He only smiles brighter when Harry steps back and opens the door wider, motioning for Louis to enter his flat. Once he’s inside, Harry closes the door behind them and slides the deadbolt in place, leaning up against the door after it’s locked.

 

“It’s very kind of you to check up on me,” Harry says, wiping away some more tears. “I’m okay though, I’m just being stupid.”

 

“I’d do it for any friend,” Louis replies, emphasizing the fact that he thinks of Harry as a friend instead of just a neighbor, or a stranger. “Do you wanna tell me what’s wrong? I’m sure it isn’t stupid—anything that makes you sad enough to cry is valid.”

 

Observing Harry’s reaction, Louis finds it slightly adorable that Harry blushes and looks down at the floor, obviously embarrassed that he’s crying in front of someone he’s only met once or twice. They head to the couch and sit down next to each other, Louis discovering that the couch is even more comfy than it looks, and it looks pretty comfy. He sinks back into the cushions, pulling his feet up onto the couch, and waits for Harry to speak.

 

“It’s stupid, but, ehm, every year my family spends Christmas at my mum’s house, you know?” Harry begins, and Louis nods understandingly. “Well, this year mum is away for work, and my sister is spending the holiday with her boyfriend’s family, so my plans pretty much fell through and I won’t get to see them for Christmas like I always do. I definitely shouldn’t be crying over it, but I just haven’t seen either of them in ages and I miss them so much. Christmas Day is something I look forward to all year because it’s one of the only days I get to spend with them for sure.”

 

“I’m sorry Harry,” Louis responds sadly. He thinks about what it would be like to not be able to visit his family for Christmas, his mum and all his sisters and his little brother. How horrible it would be on Christmas Day to be alone in his flat, maybe with his own pathetic tree up, poorly decorated because his heart just isn’t in it. “That really sucks.”

 

Harry smiles weakly. “Thank you,” he sniffles, “for being so kind.”

 

“Of course, love,” he responds without thinking about it. Then as soon as the words are out he can’t believe he said them, because he may be British but calling a man _love_ in a situation like this is just too intimate. However, he doesn’t blunder. He just keeps on going like he meant to say that. “Are you going to spend the holiday with friends, then?”

 

Yet here is Harry, and the high planes of his face are tinged pink. Is it because Louis called him _love_? Jesus. His eyes flit to the floor, and he looks very interested in a loose thread on his sweater.

 

“They’ll all be with their families, so I’ll probably just hang out here. With my cat.” He laughs sadly. “God that’s so pathetic.”

 

Louis sighs. He can’t believe he’s about to say this. He says it anyway. “Well, if you don’t make any plans by the twenty-third, you’re welcome to join me in Doncaster. I have a huge family, so another person shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Harry whispers, eyes wide and imploring.

 

“Think about it,” Louis suggests, turning away from Harry’s bright, hopeful eyes. His heart aches. “In the meantime, I’m not doing anything tonight. Wanna watch a movie or something?”

 

This time, Harry really does blush, the warm coloring very obvious against his pale skin. “I’d love to, but I haven’t set up my TV yet. I know it’s been weeks since I moved in, but it’s such a hassle.”

 

“Oh, alright.”

 

“Do you wanna do something else though?”

 

“What do you have in mind?”

 

“Ehm,” Harry looks nervous for a moment, eyes shifting to the floor again as he fiddles with his jumper. Another bolt of lightning illuminates the room in blue light, and then a loud boom resonates in the still air. Harry flinches at the sound, but when he recovers he asks, “do you like poetry?”

 

Louis regards Harry for a moment, observing him. He has dark, heavy eyes which look black in the dim lighting. Yet somehow they’re also bright. Warm. His tears are long gone, but his skin is still blotchy, and the contrails of the salty teardrops remain on his face. As another flash of lighting elucidates the room, Louis decides that the boy in front of him is unearthly beautiful.

 

“I’m a songwriter,” he responds, voice soft. “Of course I love poetry.”

 

And the confession is worth it, for the way a blinding smile explodes on Harry’s visage.

 

“Oh, I love you,” Harry says gratefully, flippantly—teasingly, even. His voice light. It’s jovial too, of course, but it still makes Louis’ breath catch in his throat. “I have this book called _Sound and Sense_ , and it’s a collection of all different types of poetry. I love it so much.”

 

“Well let’s have a look, then,” Louis says, smile widening.

 

Harry leads Louis down the hall and to his bedroom, and while Harry rifles open his bedside drawer and pulls out a hardbound book, Louis makes himself comfy on the large bed. It’s kind of a strange situation but he isn’t complaining; he likes Harry, and plus he likes poetry, so he might as well take advantage of this opportunity to spend some time with his neighbor while also enjoying one of his passions.

 

“What are you gonna read to me, dear Harold?” Louis asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, as he reclines back on the mattress and folds his arms on the pillow, resting his head on them.

 

“How about we start with a classic?” Harry suggests, flipping through the pages of the poetry assortment.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“Shakespeare?”

 

Louis smiles up at the ceiling. “Well go on then.”

 

Harry perches at the edge of the bed, straightening his back and clearing his throat before beginning:

 

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Though art more lovely and more temperate.” He lowers the book from his face for a moment to send a wide smile directly to Louis, making the recipient feel woozy at its brightness. Louis closes his eyes and listens intently, allowing the calming liquidity of Harry’s deep, quiet voice to wash over him like a river’s current.

 

“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease has all too short a date.” His inflection is perfect for poetry-reading, and between the spaces of the letters and the pauses of the lines, Louis thinks vaguely that Harry could make a living out of this… reading poetry, awarding the world with the beautiful lullaby of his soft voice, repeating words full of meaning and experience…

 

“Sometimes too hot in the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed. And every fair from fair declines by chance of nature’s changing course untrimmed. But,” he pauses, running his finger alone the silky page, his other hand gripping at the edge of the duvet subconsciously. “Thy eternal summer shall not fade… nor lose possession of that fair thou own, nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.”

 

Louis could absolutely, without a doubt, fall asleep to the melody of Harry’s vocals. He feels unbelievably calm, even as the maelstrom of winds and rain and lightning bolts thrashes the distant outer realm. He feels safe here, lying on Harry’s soft duvet, wrapped up in the lulls and comforts of Harry’s chocolaty-sweet voice, as the storm rages on outside.

 

Harry finishes with the last two lines, speaking them in nothing more than a relaxed, content sigh:

 

“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this—and this gives life to thee.”

 

If Louis were less in control of his actions, he would probably swoon right now or do something equally embarrassing. Instead he contains his blush to a minimum and harshly reminds himself that _Harry is reading poetry for god’s sake, and even though it’s a romantic Shakespearean sonnet, it doesn’t mean Harry actually means what he’s saying._ It doesn’t mean he’s actually saying it to Louis, too, even though that’s what it sounds like. Even though that’s what it feels like.

 

“More, more, more,” Louis chants lightly, making Harry laugh. He sits up and gently places his hand on Harry’s forearm. It’s meant to be a friendly, casual touch, but instead it feels heavy like an intimate gesture. Louis ignores it. “You have a lovely voice. Read more, please,” he clarifies.

 

“Thanks,” Harry responds, accepting the compliment with some form of grace. Though Louis watches in wonder as Harry’s eyes flit to the floor and he chews on his bottom lip. “What do you want to hear next?”

 

“Anything. Your favorite, maybe.”

 

“Hmm,” Harry hums, flipping through the pages. He pauses at one poem and gazes at it for a moment, and before he can turn from the page Louis stops him.

 

“What is it?” Louis asks curiously, peering at the poem Harry has annotated, the pages dog-eared.

 

“Nothing,” Harry stutters, attempting to close the book. But Louis is quicker. He slips his finger between the pages and pulls the book to his own lap, investigating the poem Harry has apparently taken an interest in.

 

“Oh, _Valediction_ ,” Louis whispers. “I love this one. Will you read it to me?”

 

Harry’s blushing wildly, cheeks tinged pink and beautiful against his pale skin. He has long since stopped crying, but the hints of tears remain—wreckage like puffy skin beneath his eyes, tinged red, and the contrails of tears along his cheeks. He looks embarrassed and shy, but Louis nudges him and urges him to read.

 

When Harry gets to Louis’ favorite part of the John Donne poem, Louis leans back and closes his eyes, enjoying the way the pretty, poetic words spill out of Harry’s mouth in a soft voice.

 

“ _Dull sublunary lovers’ love, whose soul is sense, cannot admit absence, because it doth remove those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined, that ourselves know not what it is, inter-assured of the mind, care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss._

_Our two souls, therefore, which are one, though I must go, endure not yet a breach—but an expansion, like gold to airy thinness beat.”_

 

The poem is a valediction, a goodbye. The speaker believes his love for his paramour is superior to all other love, because distance makes their love stronger instead of weakening it. Louis loves it so, because it creates the ethereal image of lovers so endeared, their love strengthens with distance.

 

And Harry must love it too, if the marked page is anything to go by.

 

When Harry finishes, Louis pokes him in the tummy until he reads more, and more, and more.

 

It’s silly. It’s stupid, even. But it’s cute, too… lovely. Lying in bed and enjoying the voice of a man he barely knows, but feels close to, somehow. Harry seems like a great person, from the little Louis has seen, and he wonders why they haven’t conversed sooner. They’re both the same age, living in the same place, even liking the same poetry apparently. Doing the same thing on a Saturday night, staying in instead of going out.

 

“How come I never see you around?” Louis asks, once they’ve exhausted the poetry, and Harry’s voice is raw from reading so much.

 

“We must be on different schedules, I guess. We should do this more often though—I’ve had fun tonight.”

 

“Do what more often? Read poetry? Or lie in your bed?” Louis smirks, unable to help it. Harry is just too easy to tease.

 

“Both,” Harry responds quietly, voice shy as he sets the book down on the nightstand. Then he collapses onto the spot beside Louis, head falling to the pillow. He lets out a long, sighing exhale, eyes closed.

 

It should feel awakard. It doesn’t. Louis walked over here after he heard Harry crying in the shower, just to make sure he was okay. Harry was gracious about the situation and even opened up to Louis, telling him about his family and the upcoming, lonely Christmas. Louis felt bad, helpless even, and invited Harry with him to his own family’s holiday festivities. Then they decided to hang out together, and ended up reading poetry. Somehow this led to the both of them in Harry’s bedroom, lying on his bed, just an inch of space between them.

 

Somehow, he falls asleep on Harry’s bed. It should feel awkward.

 

It doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

The first thing he wakes up to is the feeling of warm breath on his bare stomach.

 

He’s surprised to find it’s not his dog Clifford, sharing his bed. Rather, it’s a person. A neighbor. A boy.

 

Harry is curled up on the bed, shifted halfway down it so his face is in line with Louis’ naval. Every time he exhales, a warm puff of air brushes against the bare skin of Louis’ stomach. Louis’ shirt is rucked up to his ribs, exposing the entirety of his stomach to Harry’s breath. He must’ve fallen asleep on top of the duvet last night, and Harry too, because aside from the constant exhale of humid air, Louis is freezing.

 

When Louis sits up, Harry stirs. His eyes blink open like a sleepy kitten’s, and he blearily gazes up at Louis.

 

“What happened,” he mumbles sleepily, curling further, until his nose is just barely brushing Louis’ hip.

 

“We fell asleep,” Louis informs, debating whether or not he should sit up just yet. He’s freezing to death and wants to crawl beneath the covers, but he’s afraid Harry expects him to leave right away, upon waking up.

 

“Mm, we should do that again.”

 

“Do what?” And Louis blames his sleep-ridden mind for the way he reaches down and curls his fingers into Harry’s messy hair.

 

“Go back to sleep,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ flesh, lifting a heavy arm and drugging the duvet atop them. Like this, it’s much warmer, and much more comfortable.

 

Louis lets himself close his eyes, giving in to temptation. Harry must oblige too, because they both drift back into dreamless sleep until long after the sun surpasses the horizon and rises into the sky.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Because the sun is streaming in brightly through the windows Harry must’ve forgotten to cover with the curtains last night, they wake up four hours later, at nine o’clock.

 

Harry is still curled up and contorted, face smashed against Louis’ bare stomach, the blankets covering his entirety. Louis wakes up first, and he considers letting Harry sleep for a little while longer, but eventually he decides to just wake him gently. When Harry’s eyes blink open slowly, Louis can’t keep the smile from his face.

 

“Hey, stranger.”

 

“Hi.” Harry’s voice is rough and croaky, distorted and deep from sleep. It’s endearing. What’s even more endearing, however, is the way he presses his cheek against Louis’ tummy and sighs in seeming bliss. “What day is it?” Harry asks abruptly.

 

“Sunday. Why?”

 

“Damn it. I was supposed to go running.”

 

“This morning?”

 

“Mhm,” he mumbles into Louis’ skin, eyes closing again. “Clearly I chose to sleep in today, though.”

 

“Do you run often?” Louis inquires, curious to learn a bit more about the boy he hardly knows.

 

“Sometimes,” he mumbles, sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. “On Sundays I always go on long runs though. I like them lots—it’s just nice to clear my head and spend some time outside.”

 

 “That’s cool.”

 

“Do you run?”

 

“Not often, but I don’t hate it. Most of the time I either go to the gym or play footy.”

 

“Mm, I’m bad at football.”

 

“Really?” Louis questions skeptically. Harry seems like one of those people who are good at everything.

 

“No coordination,” he explains, stretching lazily before standing up out of bed.

 

“I guess that’s not surprising. You do trip over your own feet quite a bit.”

 

“Right,” Harry agrees, not even looking indignant. He fiddles with the edge of his jumper and pulls the sleeves over his hands, shivering. “Breakfast?”

 

“Well, I’m not going to say no to that,” Louis admits, getting out of bed as well. He pulls his shirt down as an afterthought but doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes linger on his skin. “What’s on the menu, neighbor?”

 

“Dunno. Let’s see what’s in the fridge.”

 

They end up having toast, eggs, and bacon, eating at the small kitchen table that is really only made for two people, so it’s a bit cramped with Harry’s long legs and all. But it’s nice. The conversation is enthralling, and Harry is too. Louis finds himself not wanting to leave.

 

“Any plans for today?” Louis asks, praying Harry will say no. He wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day with his new friend. After finally getting to know him a bit better, and finding out Harry’s even more wonderful than Louis first considered, it feels quite difficult to leave.

 

“Not really. I was just going to relax and mess around with my guitar, maybe.”

 

“You play guitar?” Louis perks up, interest piqued.

 

“Sorta—I’m still learning. Teaching myself and all that. Why, do you play?”

 

“A bit,” Louis admits, thinking about yesterday and how he had strummed a few cords to better comprehend the key he was considering for a song that’s still a work in progress. “You know how I mentioned songwriting when we were talking about poetry last night? That’s why I play—I know a bit, but pretty much just enough to help me write.”

 

“Ohh, cool,” Harry breathes, warming his hands on his cup of black coffee. Louis doesn’t understand how he can drink something so acidic without even a hint of milk or sugar. It’s just too _bitter_. “So you’re a real songwriter? That’s your job?”

 

“Part-time, I guess. Like a side job. It’s my passion, but it doesn’t always pay the bills. I teach voice lessons at the Center for the Arts, actually.”

 

“You sing too?” Harry gasps, eyes comically wide, in awe.

 

Louis can’t help but feel a little smug, or maybe just prideful under Harry’s awestruck gaze. Sometimes it feels nice to be preened over, especially when the one doing the preening is a cute boy. He responds an affirmative hum and watches as Harry’s eyes turn to hearts.

 

“I love singing,” he exclaims, standing up from the table to bring their barren plates to the dishwasher. “And you teach voice lessons? _And_ you write songs? What the fuck.”

 

“You have a nice voice,” Louis points out, unable to help the warm feeling that bubbles in his core at Harry’s high praise.

 

Harry shakes his head dismissively, asking instead, “can I hear something you’re working on?”

 

This leads to Louis reluctantly hurrying over to his own flat to retrieve his guitar and his song journal. He usually doesn’t do this—hell he never does this. Share his songs for other people, that is. But, big surprise, Harry is special.

 

Besides, Louis has no qualms about singing to him because Harry is just so kind. He’s understanding and nonjudgmental and it’s truly just a beautiful thing. Louis feels safe to share this intimate part of himself with Harry, and truly there’s not much that is more intimate to Louis than sharing his music—the songs he’s written completely by himself. The songs that come from the deepest reaches of his being.

 

So this is how they end up back in Harry’s bedroom, with Louis sitting on the edge of the bed, guitar in hand, and Harry cross-legged on the floor in front of him like an attentive one-person audience.

 

Louis starts strumming inexpertly, but he makes up for it when he sings, reading off of the lyrics scrawled on a median page of his well-worn songwriting journal. He can’t even stand to look at Harry because Harry is sitting there, completely devoted to listening to Louis, his face stretched into an expression of awe and wonder. It’s too much—it makes Louis feel too warm, too tingly.

 

When he finishes, Harry springs up and tackles Louis to the bed, guitar be damned, and swarms him in a tight, expressive hug.

 

“That was beautiful, Louis,” he exclaims, and when Louis pulls away enough to glance at Harry’s face, he finds his eyes are full of tears. A drop escapes and runs down his cheek and Louis laughs lightly, lifting his hand to caress Harry’s cheek, softly wiping the tear away with the pad of his thumb. Harry’s such a sap, Louis knows this now.

 

“You’re too much, Harry,” Louis laughs, rubbing his back. God, they barely know each other, and this is how they’re acting towards each other?

 

“You’re so talented,” he sniffles, smiling.

 

“And you’re such a sap,” Louis counters, hugging Harry despite his sentimentality. It’s really cute, regardless.

 

They spend the rest of that winter Sunday together, and then after that, it’s like the floodgates have opened and their newfound friendship pouring in at newfound speed.

 

Within the next few weeks, Louis finds himself hanging out at Harry’s flat almost more often than he’s in his own flat. They spend nearly all of their free time together, to the point where it’s nearly ridiculous. But it’s comfortable too. It feels natural.

 

They watch holiday movies together, cook dinner together, and go for weekend morning runs together. Louis writes songs with Harry in the room, and sometimes Harry helps him with a lyric or a note. Unsurprisingly, they’re good together—an unstoppable force, an ideal team or partnership. There must be something about Harry’s atomic makeup, Louis thinks, that just so aligns with Louis’ own composition. Everything just feels _right_. And the universe says it shall be, so, _it shall be_.

 

As it goes, Louis favorite part of the day turns out to be in the evening, after a dinner shared with Harry, when they head to the couch and cuddle up beneath a soft blanket Harry says he knitted last year. The Christmas movies on the TV only add to the comfort, but most of it is just the fact that Louis has an excuse to be pressed up snuggly against Harry’s side for two hours or so every night. He enjoys the great warmth that the boy emits, and can’t help but smile at the way their bodies just seem to _fit_ together.

 

Unsurprisingly, they both enjoy the cuddling.

 

Also unsurprisingly, one night it leads to something more.

 

They’re sitting on the couch, all cuddled up, with Harry reclined back in between Louis’ legs, his back pressed warmly against Louis’ chest. Louis has his arms wound around Harry’s slim waist, fingers interlocked, chin on Harry’s shoulder. Everything is warm and comfy and snuggly. The credits to the movie they were watching start rolling and Louis barely even notices because he’s too preoccupied with the lovely feeling of Harry wrapped up in his arms.

 

“Aghhh, I need to showerrrr,” Harry groans regrettably, obviously not wanting to get up from their extremely comfortable position. Louis knows, after a few weeks of spending copious amounts of time with Harry, that he showers before bed every night.

 

Louis nudges Harry from his position between Louis’ legs, helping him get up because. If he doesn’t do this, there’s a high chance Harry would stay there forever. “Well go on then,” Louis urges, feeling quite knackered after being up for song long. It’s eleven o’clock but Louis is exhausted due to the fact that he was up early for some morning sessions of singing lessons.

 

Harry sighs and stands up fully, lingering even though he should be halfway to the bathroom by now.

 

“What?” Louis asks through a yawn.

 

“Ehmmmm…” Harry evades, not meeting Louis’ eyes. He fidgets nervously.

 

“What is it? Spit it out, Harry.”

 

“Ehm, I was thinking? If you- uh. If you wanted to, would you like to, ehm, join me?”

 

Louis raises his eyebrows, clearly not expecting Harry’s offer. “In the shower, you mean?”

 

“Only if you wanted,” Harry responds timidly, one hand pulling at his t-shirt.

 

As a reaction, Louis rolls his eyes but can’t help but let a fond smile shine through. “Of course I want to, silly. Are you sure?”

 

Harry hums affirmatively, biting his lip. Louis thinks he might die. Instead he laughs lightly and grabs Harry by the tentative hand, guiding him down the hall to the bathroom. He gets the shower started, then turns back to the boy behind him. They stare at each other with shy eyes.

 

“I guess we should…” Louis trails off, gesturing between them. Harry gets the message and starts shedding his clothes; Louis does the same.

 

By the time they’re both blissfully naked, the water has heated up. Louis holds the shower door open for Harry and lets him step under the water first before he himself enters the shower. It’s funny because it should be awkward but it really isn’t.

 

Underneath the gentle trill of the comfortably warm water, the two of them fall into each other just like two magnets are pulled together. Harry leans languidly against Louis’ body, burying his face in the crook of Louis’ neck and letting the water wash over the two of them. Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s middle without even thinking about it. The two of them just come together so comfortably, it feels as though they’ve been doing this for years.

 

With the both of them tired and unhurried, the take turns washing each other underneath the pleasant shower spray. Louis especially enjoys shampooing Harry’s head—the way he exhales contentedly as Louis lightly scratches his nails against Harry’s scalp. He likes lathering the rest of the boy’s body too, coating him in foamy bubbles, running his hands along his silky skin, and enjoying every curve and nuance of Harry’s being. It’s just nice.

 

Once they’re both clean they huddle together beneath the warm water, hugging against. Louis rests his hands low on the junction between Harry’s thighs and bum, and Harry has his fingers wound at the hair at the nape of Louis’ neck. It doesn’t surprise either of them when Louis leans forward, rising on his toes and tugging the boy’s face closer, to press their lips together.

 

“You’re so lovely,” Louis whispers when they pull away.

 

Again Harry looks like he’s going to cry, and from the few weeks they’ve known each other Louis knows that Harry gets emotional quite often, and he cries even at things that make him happy.

 

“So are you,” he sighs, dipping back down to lick into Louis’ mouth slowly, taking his time. There truly is no rush, so neither of them act hasty or hurried. Their actions are slow and burning and wanting, with so much desire but somehow all the time in the world to act upon it.

 

As these situations often go, the hard press of their cocks ultimately can’t be ignored, so Louis takes them both in hand and flicks his wrist to get them off together, making it slow and heavy and burning just like their kissing. Harry moans lowly in response, loud enough that if Louis was back in his own flat he would be able to hear Harry through the paper-thin walls. But that doesn’t matter now, because here they are together, and Harry is covering Louis’ smaller hand in his own larger one, and they’re getting themselves off together, and it’s sexy and lovely all at the same time, and that’s how they fall apart: wrapped up in each other, enjoying each other, loving the way their bodies go together.

 

Louis takes the initiative to clean them both again and then turn the shower off. Harry whines at the lack of warmth, but Louis holds him in his arms to keep him content. Only when he has a towel to replace his body heat does he detach himself from Harry and smother him in the comfort of a fuzzy white towel.

 

They slide into bed together naked, hair wet but not dripping. Neither of them cares. In fact, it’s quite comfortable. Louis falls asleep easily with his face pressed to Harry’s neck, their hands intertwined and resting on the soft sheets in front of them.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

By December twenty-third, the two of them are jamming jumpers and joggers, among other cozy, warm clothing, into their suitcases. Harry is fretting about meeting Louis’ family. Louis has to continually kiss the worry off of his face just to get him to shut up.

 

“They’ll love you,” Louis assures. “Plus, there’s no pressure on you. It’s only been a few weeks; there are no expectations. As far as they know, you’re just my neighbor-slash-friend. I mean, mum suspects something but she won’t care. I promise she’ll love you. Frankly I don’t see how anyone couldn’t.”

 

Harry whines and returns to folding jumpers carefully, looking distraught. He doesn’t calm down until they take a shower together before they leave—their favorite pastime, nowadays.

 

As expected, Louis’ family absolutely adores Harry. The bonus is that Harry handles the chaos of a full house during the holidays quite well. Better than Louis, even, and that’s exceedingly impressive, given that Louis has experienced this same chaos all his life now.

 

Currently it’s Christmas Eve-Eve and Harry is sitting on the floor of the living room, playing with Ernest and Doris. They’re both pulling at his hair and giggling wildly, and it must be annoying but Harry is still smiling brightly and playing along with them.

 

Louis is standing in the kitchen with his mum, looking into the living room at the sight of this wonderful, crazy boy, effortlessly assimilating into Louis’ very hectic family.

 

“You only met him a few weeks ago?” Jay asks, incredulous.

 

Louis feels pretty incredulous too. He whispers, “yeah,” and tries to ignore that burning in his chest, right in the place of his heart.

 

Jay grabs his arm in solidarity, and when he looks over to gauge her expression he catches her smirk. “I’d say he’s a keeper,” she says nonchalantly, before fluttering away to do God knows what—effectively leaving Louis to his own revelations.

 

When he looks back at Harry, there’s an indescribable moment where he sees his future laid out right in front of him.

 

It’s funny how, when thinking of his future, he thinks of Harry.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

For Louis’ birthday, Harry gets him a leather-bound journal with the etching of daisies pressed into the cover, for songwriting. When Louis opens it up he sees there’s a three-page-long letter handwritten to him, by Harry.

 

However, the birthday present that takes the cake is Harry asking him to be his boyfriend. Childish as it may seem, it leaves Louis’ eyes welling with tears as Harry grasps his hands tightly and smiles so brightly when Louis says yes. They kiss in front of the Christmas tree and then join Louis’ family for hot chocolate and holiday movies.

 

Louis is quite aware of the fact that he owes it all to his decision to knock on Harry’s door that day he overheard him crying in the shower. It seemed like such a silly thing at the time, just checking up on his neighbor to make sure he was okay, but now, looking back, he realizes how crucial that decision was. Now they’re spending the holiday together at Louis’ childhood home and everything is ethereal and lovely.

 

As Christmas’s go, this one is, by far, one of the best.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> All comments are greatly appreciated. I always always always want to hear what you think.
> 
> [Link Reblog the fic post](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/post/168033486934/lunary-love-by-angelichl-louis-overhears-his)
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> Again, thanks for taking the time to read.
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> Much love,  
> Adri xx


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